40 things I know at (very nearly) 40
Also, a very good dog-themed present, Bridget Jones, Miss Austen, and why are rich people quite so silly?
I turn 40 this week. I wrote about this in my Telegraph column on the weekend HERE, and I shall shortly be pottering about the place in my muslin cap. Mostly, I’m just thrilled to get here.
I often find lists of things people have learned by a certain age quite annoying and smug, as if they feel they need to impart wisdom about love and life to other people like some sort of self-appointed sage. THAT SAID, I have compiled one of these lists below but - needless to say - it’s not deadly serious. Just a few, well, 40 things, that I know which have made my life easier/better/jollier in certain ways. I hope you like them.
The only possible reply to ‘How did you sleep?’ is ‘fine!’ Nobody wants to know the answer. They’re only being polite.
Make sure you have paracetamol, a hair tie and Gaviscon in every bag. Or Rennie. Some people prefer Rennie. Each to their own.
Quies foam earplugs are the best earplugs. Accept no imposters.
Do you really need that expensive shower gel? What about a nice plain bar of soap? I’ve reverted to Pears and I find its medicinal smell oddly comforting.
Go for a wee if you have the chance.
If you don’t have a baby or a wedding ring by 40, that’s OK. ‘Everyone gets their turn’ is the phrase I’ve said again and again and again, hoping but also really believing it’s true. Shane Watson wrote a very funny, very good piece about ‘late love’ last weekend which you can find HERE.
Have you considered a small dog?
Stick with that small dog even when you have to take him to the vet (for the third time in a month) because, it turns out, he ate a small plastic Pacman off your friend’s carpet which later comes out of his bottom in the park. If life gives you lemons, that small dog may help mend you.
We don’t need to go into the exact reasons I believe this but kefir may be a good thing for your, erm, system. In the past year or so, I’ve become a big fan of Chuckling Goat kefir (which my mum’s oncologist sent to her at one stage, so it must be pretty good), and now swear by it every morning. Warning: it’s VERY goaty. But it comes from a farm in Wales and if you look up their website you can even see little profiles on all the goats. Heaven.
Always have a tissue in your coat pocket.
A good walk works wonders. I am generally quite obsessed with what time it gets light and dark as the year rolls round, but I’ve never noticed it so keenly as I have this year, with Dennis, because it’s dictated what time we can go out in the morning and how late I can stretch the afternoon walk. And I’ve loved noticing in the mornings that we can go out at 7.11…then 7.04…then 6.58…now 6.50ish as it becomes lighter and lighter. The same goes for the evenings, and now we can practically still be frolicking about in the park at 6. Light! So hopeful!
‘There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them,’ said Sylvia Plath. And it obviously couldn’t solve everything for poor old Sylvia, but I reckon baths can still help quite a lot.
Waterproof mascara is a tiresome con that won’t come off for several weeks.
Sourdough bread is also a con.
Your weight will fluctuate. Who cares. You may look at old photos and think ‘Ooh, I was definitely thinner then,’ but did you feel enormously different as a person? I would imagine not.
As discussed recently, a properly funny card can make someone’s day.
Give up on a book if you don’t like it. There are so many books. You don’t have to persevere simply because you feel like you should.
Going to the cinema by oneself is a magnificent thing to do. Especially because when you stand up at the end and popcorn kernels cascade from your chest to the floor, nobody’s there to see.
Never buy shoes if you think they’re too small. Even if you think they’re just about alright in the shop. They’ll probably give a bit, won’t they? Never ask a shop assistant if they’ll give because the shop assistant will say yes.
The same goes for jeans.
Life is too short to hand-wash a bra. Stick it in the hand wash cycle. Stick everything like that in the hand wash cycle. That’s what it’s there for.
Scrambled eggs don’t need milk, just an obscene amount of butter. If you want to make them even richer, add an extra yolk.
Take photos of everything important on your phone - doctor appointment letters, your passport, parking spaces at the airport and so on. So long as you have your phone on you, you’ll always be able to find it.
You can never have too many lamps in a room. Lamps in the kitchen are also lovely.
Coffee machines make terrible, cold coffee. Yes yes, even your fancy coffee machine that was much more expensive than a Nespresso. Use a cafetière.
Toasted sunflower seeds, literally thrown in a saucepan for a few minutes, make every single salad more thrilling.
Initial your phone charger before Christmas/going to stay with your family/on holiday.
Change your WhatsApp settings so that nobody can see when you were last online, and they can’t see what colour your ticks are. This means you can’t see when someone else was last online, and you can’t see their ticks either. I did this about six years ago and haven’t thought about ticks or when someone was last online since. Enormously relaxing.
Co-Op salt and vinegar crisps are the best crisps.
If you’re invited to something, and you’re not sure whether you want to go, imagine that thing was this evening. If you feel dread at the thought, simply say no. I quite often think of this rule when someone’s wanging on about the latest Shakespeare adaptation at the Almeida and I wonder whether going to see it might be good for me. Improving! But do I really want to sit through 19 hours of Hamlet that evening? Ok, what if it was tonight? Do I REALLY want to sit through 19 hours of Hamlet tonight? Exactly.
Never be rude about what someone else is eating. You order a plate of liver and bacon, say, and someone you’re with sneers ‘Eeeeew, how can you eat that?’ It’s so diminishing and mean.
Similarly, TV snobbery is immensely boring and only shows how out of touch you are. People can watch what they like, whether that’s Love Island or BBC Two’s new 56-part series on the Romans.
Beauty Pie’s Pomegranate and Baies candle is a truly brilliant Diptyque rip-off and costs £20 instead of £58.
One borrowed from my mother: never write anything down when you’re angry. I would add: never send that message if you’re a tiny bit drunk. I have, from time to time, written that message after a few drinks, on the Tube home or in an Uber, but as I’ve got older I’ve usually managed to stop myself from sending it with the thought, ‘if you still feel this strongly in the morning, you can send it then.’ Guess what? I never feel that strongly in the morning.
If a man doesn’t have a mattress protector this is an enormous red flag.
If you’re in a strange car and you don’t know what side the petrol cap is on, or even if you’re in your own car and can’t quite remember because you’ve been driving for three hours and need a sugary snack (🙋♀️🙋♀️🙋♀️), there should be a little arrow on the petrol gauge indicating which side to pull in.
Consider taking up pilates. Especially if you’re a writer who spends large chunks of the day hunched over a laptop, in bed or on the sofa, with wanton disregard for your lumbar spine. I’ve been doing mat pilates for around two years now and my body is immeasurably better for it. Move with Nicole online is good if you can’t get to a class.
Get an alarm clock. Doesn’t have to be a posh one that wakes you up gradually with light or the radio. I have a very basic Casio alarm clock I bought at least a decade ago and I love it. Having a proper clock stops all that ‘Oh I need my phone on my bedside table for my alarm clock’ nonsense. It also stops you checking your phone for the time in the middle of the night.
Buy knickers a size up.
A terrific new entry, thanks to all those who commented last week: open dog poo bags before leaving the house so you’re not fumbling around with cold fingers in the park. I don’t think it’s far-fetched to say this has already revolutionised my life. Also, thank you to the kind lady who alerted me via Instagram that Who Gives A Crap is branching out into dog poo bags too. Just as their loo roll has become a middle-class hallmark, so presumably will their dog bags, and every middle-class household will now be picking up after their Labradoodle with spotty pink and orange bags.
Picture of the week
Ok, quite a silly selfie. But look at my jersey! I wore it for my weekend of marmalade judging in Cumbria (which I can’t go into in great detail because I’m writing about it for The Times, but suffice to say it was one of the most wonderful and eccentric events that I’ve ever covered, and I say that as one who toured Scotland in 2014 to grill Scottish toffs about their thoughts on the forthcoming independence referendum).
The jersey was made by my very brilliant friend Grace, who has a knitwear brand, and makes everything from scratch. I was planning on wearing an orange Uniqlo sweatshirt for the marmalade weekend, but when Grace learned this she said no, no, no, that wouldn’t do, and instead I needed to have one of her orange numbers. She’s just launched a new line where you can have the outline of whatever dog you fancy hand-stitched on it, so naturally I chose a Parson terrier. But if you have a dachshund, you could have a dachshund. If you have a Labrador, you could have a Labrador. If you have an XL Bully, I daresay you could have that too. Grace’ll stitch whatever dog you like.
She makes the jerseys in blue and orange, and they’re 10 pc cashmere and 90 pc wool, and you can find her website HERE. She also does them in a tank (ie sleeveless) version if you prefer. NOT a freebie, can I just point out, because I bought it and everything. I just think Grace is very talented and clever and these would make an excellent present (and also quite a generous one as they’re not cheap BUT they’re handmade, from a British independent producer etc etc).
Recommendations of the week
Firstly, Bridget Jones. Many of you may have seen this by now. I was quite nervous because a well-connected friend had told me she had it on good authority that it was bad. Maybe even as bad as Bridget Jones 2. (The first and third ones are great, the second one is pants.) So, off I went, quite anxiously, to the cinema by myself last Thursday lunchtime VERY indulgently because I was out that night and I wanted to see it before going away.
Well, I’m delighted to say my friend was wrong. I think, anyway. It’s GREAT. I sobbed - proper tears down my cheeks - before even the opening credits. And then I cried a further six or seven times throughout, but also cackled with laughter. It’s a different Bridget film, more poignant than the previous ones because she’s a widow (no screaming about spoilers, please, this is in the trailer above and has been very widely discussed already), but I reckon this makes it more of a Bridget for our times. A more weathered, sombre Bridget, albeit still with plenty of gags. And Hugh Grant is ageing like a fine gorgonzola, is he not? He was especially brilliant playing himself Daniel Cleaver. Also, despite the tears, I still bounced out with a spring in my step because the film is so warm and lovely. Go, it’s ace. And I’d like to take a moment here to applaud the gentleman in the Crystal Palace Everyman last Thursday lunchtime, watching it by himself with a glass of prosecco and a large popcorn. My hero.
Secondly, Miss Austen. It’s the four-part beautifully-shot BBC series about Jane and her sister Cassandra, starring Keeley Hawes, Jessica Hynes and the STUPENDOUSLY good Patsy Ferran as a pert, funny, observant Jane. I didn’t watch it at first because I’m suspicious of Austen spin-offs, and how can anything top the original Pride and Prejudice, or the Ang Lee Sense and Sensibility, or the Ciaran Hinds Persuasion? But then I caved and am v glad I did. Also well worth watching for the Regency wall colours. Chalky blues and bright yellows. Glorious.
Thirdly, THIS New Yorker piece. Save it for a long journey or an early night in bed. It’s gripping. When I first read it four years ago I was fascinated and have remembered it ever since. In short, it’s the unhappy tale of poor old James Howells, whose ex-girlfriend threw away a hard drive of his just over a decade ago, on which he had 8,000 bitcoin. This was in 2013, before everyone went mad for bitcoin, and he’d forgotten they were on there. Unfortunately, today, James’s bitcoin would be worth £620m, and his hard drive is (probably) still buried somewhere in a Welsh tip.
The New Yorker piece brilliantly explains his extensive efforts to try and get the hard drive back over the years, and I was reminded of all this by a BBC news piece last week (below) saying that Newport Council are now trying to close the tip, and James wants to buy it because he’s still desperate to find the hard drive. It’s a long but meticulously reported piece, as New Yorker pieces tend to be, and just the most agonising story - the digital equivalent of winning the lottery with your numbers and then realising you’ve lost the ticket. Ouch.
Nonsense of the week
Given the very real, very serious international dramas going on atm, you may well have missed the news last week that a squabble over a £21m diamond has been settled in the High Court. I’ve paid some attention to this case over the past few months, because some years ago I interviewed one of the Qatari sheikhs involved. Sheikh Hamad bin Abdullah Al Thani, he’s called, and he’s amassed one of the largest and most valuable jewel collections in the world.
I interviewed him about this jewel collection at his house, Dudley House, which overlooks Park Lane. You may have noticed it from Hyde Park. I used to run around the park every day and wonder who lived in there before I got to go inside myself. It’s the big white one with ornate balconies. You know, this one:
What you don’t really get from this photo is a sense of how big the house is. It is big. VAST. WHOPPING. In total, 44,000 square foot. FORTY-FOUR THOUSAND SQUARE FOOT. In the poshest bit of London. Nobody quite knows how much it’s worth. Some reports say £200m. Some say £350m. If you live in a house worth so much you’re probably not bothered about the odd £100m discrepancy. I read before my visit that the staff supposedly changed from black tie to white tie at 6pm every evening, and that the late Queen once visited for dinner and remarked that it made Buckingham Palace look ‘rather dull’ (he’s into his horses, this sheikh, as well as jewels, so they were pals).
I’ve never actually visited Buckingham Palace (I know, rude, why haven’t they invited me?), so I cannot say whether that is true or not, but the interiors of Dudley House are indeed MAD. Like Versailles. Holbeins and van Dycks on the walls; ornate furniture you daren’t sit on; gold everywhere. Even a solid gold loo seat. Only joking. Annoyingly I didn’t think to visit the loo when I was there so I can’t tell you what it’s like. It probably was gold though.
The photographer and I were left waiting in the posh billiard room below for over an hour after the interview was due to begin, when classical music suddenly burst loudly from hidden speakers, as if an orchestra had struck up nearby. This was to announce Sheikh Hamad’s entry, who then appeared in a cloud of extremely strong aftershave. He had very smooth hands.
Four footmen escorted us to another room, a smaller sitting room, where I was served tea, and pistachios from silver bowls, and I asked the sheikh various polite questions about his jewel collection. He seemed curiously childlike and innocent, as wildly rich people sometimes can be, having grown up in palaces in Qatar and France, cosseted from normal things like queuing for the bus or putting toothpaste on his own toothbrush.
At one stage, a clock on a side table chimed with the time and, again, making polite chit-chat, I remarked that it was a pretty clock.
‘Yes, please, please! Take a look at my clock. It spits pearls!’ Sheikh Hamad declared happily, ushering me towards the clock.
I stood and leant closer: it was a highly decorative clock with four gold dragons on each corner, and at the strike of each hour, the correct number of pearls would be spat from each of the dragons’ mouths and run back inside the clock again. Four pearls at 4pm. Five pearls at 5pm and so on. A clock that SPITS pearls. Imagine. I was transfixed. The whole scenario was wild - this huuuuuge house, this billionaire sheikh, the art, the furniture, the number of staff, the jewellery collection, the clock that spits pearls.
Unfortunately, my interview isn’t online, and a subsequent Vanity Fair piece about him and his house has vanished too. I think I read somewhere that the Sheikh had taken a dislike to the VF piece, so perhaps his lawyers had words and it was taken down deliberately. He was perfectly polite and charming but didn’t say anything particularly enlightening and I left with the impression that he was something of a lost man-child, trying to find meaning in life by buying up every sparkly thing he could.
Anyway, the point of all this is that he’s just LOST a case in the High Court to buy a £21m diamond from his cousin’s estate. It’s the world’s biggest blue cut diamond, known as the Idol’s Eye. Imagine a diamond the size of a plum. That kind of thing. You probably wouldn’t wear it on the Tube. Long story short, Sheikh Hamad was insisting that his cousin had once offered him an option to buy the diamond should he so wish; his cousin’s estate said otherwise and wanted to keep it. Last week, after months of deliberations, a judge sided with the cousin’s estate. Sheikh Hamad won’t have the blue diamond.
Squabbling with one’s cousin over a diamond seems like a ridiculous row to have spent serious legal money on, doesn’t it? And even sillier at a time like now when the headlines are talking of appeasement, and defence spending, and European armies. Have very very rich people always been so silly (am thinking of Elon Musk’s behaviour atm too), or is it just that some of them are more visible to us, these days?
PS. So sorry, this is the longest Substack I’ve ever written. If you’ve reached this far, BRAVO. But this is just a brief note to add that I’m currently holed up in a lovely remote cottage in North Wales, working on book with Dennis for company. So I’m taking next week off Substack so I can concentrate on the book, and will be back the week after that if that’s alright. Love from us both X
Love all of these. In ten years’ time add to your ‘things I know at 50’ list: put sized-up pants on the radiator an hour before putting them on
One of your best if not The Best article! With you all the way through the list and comments on life in general.
Well done! 👏👌😊